


Though You Are Grown

by Deejaymil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And also emotions, Angst, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Character Death, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, There will be hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when Sherlock was only hours old, Mycroft was already worrying about him. </p><p>That, unsurprisingly, never changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I remember years ago,

**Author's Note:**

> _ _

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is born, and Mycroft promises him everything.

_I remember years ago, you were so little then._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

Mycroft was seven when his baby brother entered the world and immediately attempted to leave it again. It was a startling feeling: as soon as he’d seen the strange face surrounded by a mop of slimy curls, he’d known that he loved him more than anything he'd ever loved before. The baby, with firm indifference for the fact that Mycroft loved him tremendously, ignored this and unexpectedly stopped breathing. Four weeks early and already charging headfirst into situations he wasn't in any way prepared for, his brother personified a stubborn disregard for his life.

Later, Mycroft would remember this and sigh fondly. It never really changed.

Mummy slept, strained by the difficult birth. She didn’t look much like herself anymore. More like an older, drained version of the woman she’d been. Mycroft had wondered if it was worth his brother’s life if it cost him Mummy, and was quite afraid that it might be.

The room was raucous, busy with nurses and loud machines and clamouring distractions that grated on Mycroft’s nerves and made his hands shake. He shoved them in his pocket. Mummy would be mad. He would crease his suit. It occurred to him that the room was actually painfully silent when it came to the noises that counted. Two children within and neither making a sound. The nurses spared him nervous glances, concern shown for the solemn seven-year old watching them: concern for the baby brother he was losing.

Father stood and watched with a blank, uncaring expression. Mycroft stood stiff-backed by his side and attempted to mimic the man’s mannerisms, seeking comfort in the way he knew was allowable. He longed to reach out and slip his hand into Father's warm palm. He knew what would happen if he did though. A sharp glare from his elder, a hissed rebuke: _“Such behaviour is unbecoming for a Holmes, Mycroft.”_ The corner of his mouth would turn down minutely, expressing his great disappointment in how his oldest son had turned out, how his youngest seemed to be following that example. Hours old, and the baby was already acting in ways unbecoming for a Holmes. Dissatisfaction settled onto Father’s shoulders, turning his gaze dark.

A machine shrilled, and the nurses shooed them out. He caught a glimpse of tiny blue lips and a lifeless hand. The promise of a baby brother to love and protect seemed as though it was going to be snatched away from him before he'd had a chance to learn to resent it. Something heavy lodged in his throat, cutting off his air, and he fancied what it would be like to lie on the cool tiles of the hospital and forget how to breathe. Perhaps he would follow his brother to wherever he went, following his example: limp and blue and refusing to be a Holmes.

Father was bored. Angry. Uncaring. Mycroft had spent his life quietly making Mummy and his teachers proud of him with his polite charm and exceptional marks. A mature and dignified child, but a child none the less. He was polite and dutiful, and so people forgot he was always observing, learning, nurturing his inherited gift of intelligence to infer their motivations. He learned to get what he wanted with practised charm and a smile. 

Father was silent, but everything that would never be spoken was clear for Mycroft to read. In the impatient tap of his shoes was the truth of the affair; the slight crease on the cuff of his shirt proclaimed the paternity of the dying boy. The way Mummy now poured their juice in the morning was an unspoken _, “I despise you.”_ Over the snap of the business section being opened every breakfast was his reply _: “I don’t care.”_

Mycroft was the dutiful child but as he stood in that cold hallway and saw the lies coating Father’s skin, he grew angry. If his brother died here today and became a sad bundle to be hastily hurried away and hidden, the man wouldn’t grieve. He would continue as he always had and allow the lost child to become a ghost of a memory.

 _He won’t die unclaimed,_ Mycroft decided. He was his brother, always his brother no matter what happened. He wouldn’t die like no one loved him. “He doesn’t have a name.” Father glanced at him for the first time that day, and his eyes were shrewd. A hard man, a cold man: he was ruthless with his business associates, uncaring about his wife, and brisk with his only son. But, he did love Mycroft, as much as he understood how. He relented, slightly. In what would become one of the handful of times he acknowledged his wife's bastard son, he named him.

“Sherlock. His name is Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded once and scuffed his meticulously polished shoe against the linoleum. Not another word would be spoken about Sherlock until weeks later when Mummy finally brought home the squalling, ill-tempered baby. But to himself, he swore that if his brother lived, he would never allow harm to come to him. Mycroft had never shirked an obligation before. He didn’t plan to begin now with this most imperative thing.

Sherlock was both the greatest gift and the most important duty he’d ever been given.


	2. I remember years ago,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock falls through the ice, and Mycroft almost willfully follows.

_Sometimes, I can't help but wish, that you were small again._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

The day Sherlock fell through the ice had begun with a bang. To be more precise, it had begun with the bang of his chemistry set exploding as ‘d tested the boiling points of common household substances. They were chased outside to ‘play’, with Mycroft’s eyes and throat burning noxiously. Mycroft hadn’t ‘played’ a day in his life, and he had no intention upon starting today, expressing keen displeasure with his seven-year-old brother by wholly ignoring him, still pausing to wind a scarf around his throat and instructing him firmly to keep his coat on. It was his best attempt at whole ignorance, anyway.

Sherlock had grown into the exact opposite of his brother. Rude where Mycroft was unfailingly polite; loud where Mycroft was quiet; and dreadfully certain that he was the centre of his own universe. Mycroft was quite content to skim along on the outside of his brother’s orbit like an exceedingly well-dressed moon. As such, Sherlock didn’t take too kindly to being ignored, and followed Mycroft demanding that his brother help him experiment with the frozen pond. Mycroft shook his head. He knew all too well that any experiment of Sherlock's would end with Mycroft in his father's office, replaying a scene they’d acted out many times over.

Mycroft could recite his father’s lecture about responsible behaviours and not letting his brother lead him astray off by heart. Sherlock’s part was to stand silently behind Mycroft with one hand gripping the back of his brother’s coat before being sent to bed without a word of reproach or supper. Apparently, it was okay when it was Father doing the ignoring.

So, as soon as Sherlock mentioned the fateful word ‘experiment’, Mycroft agreed to help him, waited until the boy ran off to retrieve needed materials, and slipped into the greenhouse to latch the door tightly behind him.  Sherlock would never be able to see him through the thick foliage. Adding to that, it was located close enough to the lake that he could listen for screams or bangs, and even if Sherlock deduced where he was, the glass had long since been Sherlock-proofed.

After all, it wasn't fair that Mycroft was the only one who ever got into trouble. Mummy never dealt with the unpleasantness of discipline, and to scold Sherlock, Father would have to first speak to the child. Mycroft seemed to be the only one concerned about Sherlock’s raucous behaviour. Disciplining him had fallen firmly onto his shoulders, and that was something that was much easier said than done. Sometimes he wished his brother would just go away and leave him in peace.

He opened his book and settled back between two lightly scented plants. A waiting sort of calm settled over him. After all, hardly a day went by without incident around Sherlock. He didn’t expect this to be the first.

 

* * *

 

The day, despite the explosion, had started off by going rather well for the household. They had collectively come to the conclusion long ago that things ran much more smoothly when Sherlock was out of the picture. And it had continuing going well right up until, in a fit of betrayed rage, Sherlock took out his fury out on his brother by changing the boundaries of his experiment. And by changing the boundaries, he had basically just decided to take his temper out on his surroundings.

His surroundings being the lake.

In what was going to be a simple test of how much acid it took to melt the ice sufficiently to cause minor structural damage to the surface’s integrity—which he had carefully calculated using Mycroft and three sturdy planks of wood—, now the only variable was Sherlock himself. Sherlock, who had promptly given up on the nonsense safety precautions his stickler brother insisted on as soon as the elder Holmes had vanished. Muttering furiously to himself, the seven-year-old kicked his chemistry set out onto the slick surface of the frozen lake _. Stupid, fat, lazy Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought angrily, following the rattling jars and glaring petulantly at their swishing contents. _Dull, dull, dull._

_What do I need him for anyway,_ he stormed, punctuating every word by stomping on the jars to be certain they broke. His shoe bounced off, sending a spark of jarring pain up his ankle, and he snarled. Mummy, no doubt being well aware of her son’s tempers, had clearly attempted to tantrum-proof them. No doubt the stupid things were diluted to the point of uselessness as well. That was the kind of obnoxious thing his family would do to him. He stomped a few more times, just to be sure that the ice was well aware that he was now angry at Mummy as well as the boring Mycroft.

To be boring was worse than anything. Sherlock despised boring things.

The ice, having been weakened by an unseasonably warm spell, knew none of this. Instead of allowing him to vent his rage and move on with his day, it shifted warningly underfoot.

Sherlock ignored it.

“Too busy eating to be interesting,” yelled Sherlock some more, louder this time. “Arrogant, lazy, obtuse _idiot!_ ” The last word was followed by a crack that echoed around the snowy grounds.

With a squealing yelp, Sherlock disappeared from sight.

Mycroft heard the crack with a numb sense of recognition. He heard the cry with a jolt of raw terror that turned his guts to water. Heart leaping into his throat in a way it hadn't done since Sherlock had jumped through the glasshouse wall in pursuit of imaginary pirates, both the book and his tea tumbled to the floor. In a surprising show of speed and agility, the mostly sedentary teen sprinted to the door, almost offering a repeat of that performance by crashing through it in his haste.

Frigid air bit at his uncovered throat cruelly. It made the breath that he rasped through clenched teeth sting at his inhale. As his feet flew across the ground with unprecedented haste, he had the inexorable sensation that he was tumbling wildly out of control. It was a sensation he had felt only once before, when he had missed a step on a slope and promptly fallen down it. It had the same inevitability to it as the long moment when the ground had disappeared out from under his shoe and he had been helplessly lost to gravity, committed to wherever the fall chose to take him.

Mycroft didn't waste breath with shouting for help.

The lake loomed ahead, smooth surface marred by the black hole where his brother had slipped through. The cracks were almost taunting, pointing like punishing fingers to the place where moments ago he had stood—mocking Mycroft that if he had of been quicker, been a better brother, it would have never gotten the chance to claim its prize.

Skidding out onto the ice, Mycroft’s movements turned jerky and slow. Panic clawed at his mind slowing his thoughts and threatening to freeze him with shock. _I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it._ The hole called to him but he knew his brother wouldn’t be there, would have been torn away from that point by hidden currents and dragged along underneath the ice. Prevented from surfacing on his own. He scanned for a flash of colour. A flash of green against the winter blue. Sherlock was wearing green. A coat that Mycroft himself had brought him last Christmas.

A coat that he had never planned to lose him in.

“Sherlock!” It was a scream, a wounded cry. _Anything. I’ll give you anything._ He still couldn't see, couldn’t think, and precious seconds ticked away as he counted down his brother’s remaining heartbeats. Staggering, feet slipping, the ice shifting under him: he was being called him down to his brother. Offered a dangerous path following into the dark. Or warned. It didn't matter which it was in the end. If he couldn't save his brother, falling through the ice would be a blessing.

The ice vanished as his vision blurred, leaving him with only Sherlock's bright, and trusting gaze to focus on. His cheeky, lopsided smile. The way he was and would never be again if Mycroft failed here. Mycroft couldn't speak, couldn't shout, couldn't breathe. Footsteps echoed behind him, adding to the dull thumping of his pulse in his ears. Eyes locked on the ice, his paralysing fright was the only thing stopping him from shattering the shifting ice beneath his feet.

“Mycroft! Get down! Don't move!”

Father shouting from a great distance. Worrying about him but not his brother. Mycroft wondered if the man had learned to grieve yet. He turned his gaze to stare accusingly at him and saw it.

A flash of green against the ice.

The press of a palm against the surface.

Dark curls tumbling, lost in the blue.

Speech was beyond him. Instead he lunged forward, kicking madly at the ice like a wild thing. The gardener, axe in hand, got there first and brought the handle down hard on the spot just to the left of the splash of colour and reached into the frigid water. He dragged out a tangle of soaked clothes, limp limbs, and matted curls: the sum of features belonging to the whole of Mycroft’s brother, but with none of the crucial relentlessness of him. A still, broken form.

Mycroft reached them the same time Father did. He reached for Sherlock's pale hand even as Father grabbed his shoulder and yanked him off the ice and away. Mycroft fought him, a man possessed. Desperate to reach the child that was tranquil and cold beneath the servant trying to bring life back into blue lips.

His world contracted to the delicate curve of closed eyelashes on a cheek that could be carved from porcelain. He was lost in that sight, still caught in the sensation of falling down that endless slope. The ground had betrayed him now, and he knew he could never be certain of his footing again. Pain arrived and Mycroft fell. Hands flew to a face stinging sharply from Father’s blow. The man stood over him with burning eyes, hand clenched as his son quivered below him. “Don't be a fool, Mycroft,” he said without emotion. “Whether he lives or dies, this behaviour is not becoming for a Holmes!”

Mycroft would dearly have loved to tell him that if that was what it meant to be a Holmes, then he could shove his family name somewhere unmentionable. To scream at his father that the only thing that mattered to him, the only person he truly loved without bounds, was the child lying prone on the frozen ground.

But he didn't.

He contented himself with standing and glaring at Father with a gaze that didn't waver even as his cheek stung in the cold air. He contented himself with shoving past him wordlessly and striding towards his brother. He contented himself by falling to his knees in the muddy snow and letting everything he’d never said to his brother show in his expression and his posture.

He wasn’t much of a Holmes but that was okay, because neither was Sherlock.

Sherlock began to cough, throwing up frigid lake water and gasping as pain. Mycroft didn't take his eyes from him, noting the colourless skin and tremors that wracked the tiny body. Shivering was good. Shivering meant the body was alive, was reacting to stimuli. Shivering was hope.

Something loosened in his chest, a knot of worry that was familiar enough that he knew it belonged to his brother. It was no longer so large it choked him into a panic, like it had as he’d stood on the ice, but it was still present and looming. No doubt it would for the rest of his life.

Father made a disapproving noise behind him. Mycroft knew that everything he had worked for had been undone in the course of an afternoon. His father would never look at him the same.

Father called out the last advice he would ever give his oldest son. “Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft.”

Mycroft was sure that he must be wrong.


	3. I've cried when you've faced heartaches,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the brothers drift apart and circumstances conspire to force them back together.

_I've cried when you've faced heartaches, and saw, that as you grew, nothing broke your Spirit, instead it strengthened you._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

Five years prior to the scene Mycroft now faded, he’d been a growing contender in the London political landscape. He’d worked painfully hard on his career, perhaps to the neglect of his family. And he’d been finding that it was easier and easier to sympathize with Father, although he had contended that the thought should have bothered him more than it had.

He and Sherlock had not so much drifted apart over the last decade; rather their relationship had met an abrupt and vicious end. Mycroft had fond memories of their time together those last holidays before he’d first left for college, but when he had returned several months later, it was to a scowling stranger. A furious imitation of his loving brother, glaring balefully at him with pale eyes. Family dinners at Mummy’s had become haunted by the wailing screech of a tormented violin, and Mycroft watched as something dark and foreboding crept into his brother’s heart. Almost relieved when Sherlock had moved to his own home and Mycroft had been spared the sight of the brilliant mind working itself into destruction.

Relief that had lasted right up until Sherlock vanished for the first time. Forced by a hysterical Mummy convinced that Sherlock was dead in a gutter, Mycroft dragged his brother out of the squalid flat he was festering in and deposited him in front of her. Sherlock had been silent the whole visit, staring at the floor as though he could burn his way through it with the sheer force of his aggressive personality. Talk and lanky, he sprawled across the couch in the sitting room with his limbs askew, ignoring them absolutely.

He was out the door before farewells had even been issued.

And then he’d vanished again. And again. And each time, Mycroft had dutifully taken time away from his burgeoning career to track him down. He’d discovered, much as he had been expecting, that Sherlock was not a well-liked man.

Mycroft was well aware of his brother's faults: he was stubborn, arrogant, decidedly too clever for his own good, and possessed an ego the size of London herself. He had expected complaints about Sherlock's deductions, about the unfailingly rude way he spoke, about his casual disregard for everyone around him, or about his penchant for barely tolerating safety procedures.

What he had not been expecting was them to tell him that the youngest Holmes rarely spoke a word, had marks so low as to be flirting with failure, and that most of the lecturers were of the opinion that he was an average, perhaps slightly dim-witted student. Mycroft stared at the first lecturer to say this, one eyebrow raised in displeasure, and silently contemplated having the man fired. Or shot from a cannon—for surely, he was the first to ever call Sherlock Holmes _stupid_.

After the fourth professor repeated the same, Mycroft had felt a cold feeling grow in the pit of his stomach. Years of working in politics meant that very little of what he felt reached his face, and Father's cold eyes that he’d inherited were only slightly offset by his natural charm. He’d left that day leaving behind several shaken teachers and students, all of whom were far more curious about their weird, anti-social classmate.

It had been six months since Mycroft had seen his brother in person instead of through the grainy view of a camera lens. It had been three weeks since Sherlock had been seen at university. One student in particular had caught Mycroft's eye, shifting on his feet as he spoke, and refusing to make eye contact. Mycroft sought him out alone.

“My brother, Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said in a pleasant tone that brooked no argument. “I want to know where he is. I should have known this morning. You're going to tell me.”

Ten minutes later, he had an address and a sinking suspicion that he was in over his head. He pulled up outside the dilapidated house, disgruntled to realize that he had been beaten to it by none other than London's finest.

The trick to fitting in anywhere was to act as though you had every right to be there. His calm face betrayed none of the anxiety he felt.  _If this is anything like the Carl Powers case..._  he thought to himself. It had taken him all of his contacts to extract Sherlock from that situation, and he didn't look forward to doing so again. That untidiness had set him back three years in his career. It had never occurred to him that he could leave his brother to work out his own problems.

“Who is in charge here?” he barked at a young constable, still green about the ears and easily intimidated. Or so he had thought. The constable turned to face him and glared straight back. Blue eyes met brown and held. Mycroft decided that this was an officer who wouldn't stay constable long. The silence stretched and Mycroft huffed a sigh to himself. “Mycroft Holmes. I'm looking for my brother.”

The constable hesitated. “In there? Your brother into that sort of thing?” Mycroft stayed silent. His mind raced over itself as he drew a sudden, unpleasant conclusion. The constable's mouth shifted into an unhappy grimace. “Drugs bust. You err...” He hesitated, looking around. “You could probably get in and get him out, quick like. Just this once.”

Mycroft allowed himself to look startled. “You'd help me? A man you've just met?”

How interesting.

The constable shrugged. “I'm a copper. I help people—it's what I'm paid to do. Apparently. And those in that house, they need all the help they can get. If you find your brother, he'll get help?”

Half an hour ago, Mycroft had been blissfully unaware that his brother had even an inkling of a drug problem and he wasn't quite willing to give up the notion that this was one of Sherlock's experiments and therefore quickly forgotten. “Yes,” he answered simply, ducking past and into the house. “Thank you.”

That was the first time Mycroft had seen his brother high. It had never lost its horror. There was something about Sherlock's eyes when he was on cocaine that cut Mycroft’s bones with ice. The pupils blown so wide there was only a bare sliver of blue around the edges. The way he looked straight through him, as though Mycroft was hopelessly unimportant. But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was the way Sherlock moved while high that caused Mycroft's teeth to grate painfully against themselves.

Sherlock had always been a tightly wound spring, coiled and ready to leap into action. Even asleep he moved constantly, buzzing with pent up energy. He hadn't quite grown into the body that was longer than tall, and his movements were often jerky and awkward. He was always dramatic despite this.

While high, Sherlock was still. Still and careful and moving with a ferocious grace that terrified Mycroft. He’d never allow his brother to know this. It was a mark to how far gone the man was that he couldn’t tell. When Sherlock was high, Mycroft feared him like nothing else.

He could bring ruin to them all.

Touching him caused Mycroft's skin to itch unpleasantly. Around the fourth time he had been forced to drag his brother home to detox, he had given up and delegated the task to his lackeys.

Sherlock had viewed this as the final betrayal.

 

* * *

 

The knot was back: that terrible, choking panic that Mycroft only ever associated with his little brother. He strode up the hall with time dragging around him, panting with exertion as though he was trying to walk through custard instead of air. _Only for his brother_ , he thought. Every time he was forced to move like this, it was always for Sherlock. The truth of it was that one day he wasn’t going be fast enough. One day he would fail.

He prayed to whoever was listening that it wasn't today. 

Five years after the first time Mycroft had found his brother in a crack-den, he received a phone call from the recently promoted Detective Lestrade alerting him to an overdose matching his brother's description. He didn’t send his lackeys. He sprinted up the hall, panting, face shiny with sweat and looking undone in a way he hadn't since his teen years. Lestrade tried to stop him as he barrelled towards the door but he wouldn’t be stopped.

Sherlock arched his head backwards, and lazily opened one eye to gaze at him. There was a satisfied smirk on his arrogant face. He had lost weight, lots of it. Mycroft breathed slowly, trying to pull himself together, hoping pale eyes didn't notice his flushed skin and ruffled clothes. Sherlock already had all the ammunition he needed.

“False alarm, Brother-Mine,” Sherlock drawled in his low baritone, scratchy and harsh with disuse. Filthy and half-way towards being ill, but alive. Alive and not as unwell as reports had led Mycroft to believe. “You still have to share the inheritance. Oh wait...” He paused for theatrical effect, closing one eye again and reclining, ever so smoothly. Mycroft barely restrained a shiver. “I've already been disowned. Lucky you.”

Mycroft took two steps towards his brother, not scared anymore. Angry, instead. He grabbed the arm that Sherlock didn't even bother trying to hide. The rash of marks up the crook told the story of just how far they’d come from the days when Mycroft would dutifully play lab rat to Sherlock’s experiments just to see him smile. Sherlock stared at him in shock. There was something hungry in that gaze. Mycroft wondered when anyone had last touched him, feeling the man trying to both lean into the touch and pull away at the same time.

He snarled, forcing all his anger and fear and, yes, hatred, hatred for this creature posing as his brother, out into the open: “This ends now, Sherlock Holmes.” Father's words and Father's voice. Cold, angry eyes that Sherlock couldn't help but shiver away from. “Or so help me, I’ll ruin you.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly, his emotions hidden. “I hate you,” he stated dully.

“Often, I find the feeling is mutual, Brother.”


	4. I'm filled with mixed emotions,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock come to an agreement.

_I'm filled with mixed emotions, as I hold back all the tears and, with much pride remember, back so many years._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

Sherlock had taken to referring to him as his 'archenemy', a term that Mycroft found almost unbearably dramatic. He supposed that he should be glad his brother had finally gotten himself a hobby. God knows, he needed one. Something to distract him from the cravings that Mycroft was well aware still perpetually plagued him. But they were old enough now that they needn't squabble like children. Of course, it was rather hard to remember their dignified ages once he was actually in the same room as his obnoxious younger sibling.

“Consulting detective? That position doesn't even exist, Sherlock!” Mycroft stood in the hallway of the dingy apartments that Sherlock had stubbornly insisted upon staying in. He knew his brother didn't actually like the awful place with the shoddy hot water and lights that flickered unexpectedly and without reason. He stayed there simply to annoy his brother, who had offered him accommodation much more suitable to his class. His brother, holding the doorframe and stubbornly blocking him access into the flat, scowled. Shabby pyjamas and a stained dressing gown added to the raggedness of the place, with Sherlock’s messy hair standing in spikes around his head. It just wasn’t becoming for a Holmes.

This was almost as bad as when he’d thrown out all his suits and worn nothing but shirts and tatty jeans for months on end, protesting  _something_. “It does now. I invented it,” he retorted. “And I don't need your approval, Mycroft.” The last word he spat, as though it physically pained him. Mycroft barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Besides, you're just jealous.”

Mycroft choked indignantly. “Jealous? Of a made-up career, if I could call it a career. Hardly!”

His brother’s smirk was smug. “You're just upset you didn't think of making your job up. Mycroft Holmes, consulting... cake-eater. You’re getting fatter, Brother. They'll need to invent a government position for your girth soon, if you're not careful.”

Mycroft gripped his umbrella tightly, the back of his neck reddening. He would not allow his brother to see how angry he was. “Fine! Have your silly detective work, Miss Marple! But don’t expect any help from me until you've come to your senses and taken a real job! I'm cutting you off, I won’t pay for your silly flights of fancy or this disgusting... I won’t even call it an apartment—it’s a hovel!”

Sherlock spluttered in fury. “You can't! It’s my money!”

“Not anymore, Brother-mine. You were disowned. It’s up to me as to whether or not you get your grubby paws on any of it. And, until you prove you're old enough to handle it, it’s also mine to withhold.”

He actually thought Sherlock might strike him. Eyes wide with anger, his brother took a step towards him. Mycroft tensed, waiting. “I can’t live on nothing—I can help people doing this!”

“You don’t care about people, Sherlock. You never have. Why should I believe you now?”

Sherlock didn't hit him. Just stared. “I won't give this up, Mycroft. This is my chance, you don’t _understand_. This isn’t  _boring_.”

Mycroft saw his chance to issue an ultimatum, one that his brother would never agree with. “Fine. Stay as you are and starve.” His brother’s eyes narrowed again, and Mycroft continued quickly, “or...have your ‘consulting detective work’ and reduced access to your trust fund.”

“Reduced? You said you’d cut me off, not reduce it.” Sherlock was waiting for the catch, and Mycroft allowed himself a moment to bask in the younger man’s discomfort. But not too long—that would be childish. “Do hurry up, Mycroft, I can hear your stomach growling and I’m worried you might just get hungry and eat me if you wait much longer.”

“You find a new flat—”

“I won't be able to afford better on a reduced—”

“And a flatmate.”

Silence. Sherlock actually took a step back, as though he had been slapped. “A... what?!”

“You keep your money, albeit a smaller amount, you get a nicer flat, and you get your... experiment. What’s to dislike about that, Sherlock?”

“I cannot, you can’t... I won’t!”

“Then starve. Or come work for me. I would so enjoy having you around, Brother. Working with me, we’d be together... constantly.” He knew he’d won. He could see it on his brother’s face. Sherlock just didn't know it yet.

His only answer was the door slamming in his face. He imagined he could hear the thump of Sherlock throwing himself onto his threadbare couch in a huff, and allowed himself a smirk. Turning smartly on his heel, he nodded to the neighbour peeking curiously out of her door, and strode towards the exit.

Anthea waited by the car, her face impassive, tapping away on her phone. “How did it go, Sir?”

“Wonderfully. I'll have a reply by tomorrow, I should imagine.” He could smell something delicious in the car, and felt a small curl of contentment. Anthea truly was a godsend, worth every penny. He must send a wine to the man who’d recommended her. She was proving irreplaceable. Anthea glanced up at the darkened window of Sherlock’s apartment and didn’t reply. Mycroft could see the doubt in her eyes. “He’s stubborn, not stupid. I can’t think where he got this pigheadedness from. It’s proving to be a dreadful bother.”

His assistant had a face of pure innocence as she looked back at him, eyes widened just so. “I can't imagine it either, Sir. Truly a mystery.”

Oh _yes_. He really did like this one.

Hours later, Mycroft cursed the nameless man who’d contributed the necessary elements to create the one and only Sherlock Holmes. He cursed his mother, he cursed Lestrade, but most of all, he silently railed against the God who’d dared have the audacity to make this insufferable prick  _his_ problem.

Anthea stared at him, having not had the misfortune to deal with what Mycroft referred to as a ‘Code Sherlock’s Done Something Stupid Again.’ “The message didn’t say what had happened, Sir. Just that there was an incident with a criminal and your brother was involved. A DI Lestrade sent it to me.” She paused. “He’s at Barts. Lestrade said he was asking for you.”

Mycroft felt his gut twist. “Asking for me? I doubt that. Call for the car, we leave immediately.”

“Sir... the meeting?”

“Cancel it.”

“Very well. It will be ready at your pleasure.”

He really hoped Sherlock hadn't actually asked for him. If he had, then he was most certainly dying. Surely, they would have told him if that was so...

The drive to Barts had never been so long before. Mycroft was rigid with strain, gripping his umbrella so tightly his knuckles were white. Anthea fielded dozens of calls from tedious assistants. “I’d hate to break this lovely tension, Sir,” Anthea said, her eyes locked on her phone. “But I implore that you don't cancel your three o'clock... national security and all that.”

“We’ll see,” Mycroft murmured, his voice tight. He just needed to see if Sherlock was okay. He wasn’t chasing after his brother; he was just ensuring that he was still breathing. And if they had to endanger their relationship with one of Britain’s closest allies to do so, well, so be it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was fine. He wasn't even concussed, and he was positively _furious_ with his entrapment at the hospital. Mycroft frowned when he realized he’d been led there on false pretences while the DI tried not to smirk.

“He was being a prick,” Lestrade admitted. “I can’t have him chasing the criminals without backup.” He caught what he’d said, as Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and diverted. “Can’t have him chasing criminals, is what I meant. I wanted to show him exactly what I’d do if he did it again.” His expression was rueful, guilty at using Mycroft as a punishment for misbehaviour.

Mycroft liked Lestrade. He liked how the man treated his brother and he liked how steady he was, but he wouldn't tolerate a Holmes, any Holmes, throwing himself into danger like this. He tried not to think about how he was still chasing Sherlock around, the same as he had when they were little. _Any Holmes at all,_ he told himself. Not just the tall, snarky ones.

“You need him, don't you?” he asked. Lestrade hesitated, still cautious around the elder Holmes, although not as much as he used to be. Mycroft studied him, the grey hair that wasn’t there when they first met, the new lines on the Detective’s face. A tired man soldiering on because that was all he knew how to do. 

“Yes,” was the murmured reply. “God help us, yes we do. I wish we didn’t, but we solve more crimes, we solve them faster, and we save more lives with him around. Although I wish he wouldn't antagonize my team, the bastard.” He looked Mycroft in the eye, without flinching. Another thing Mycroft liked about the detective. Not many people would make eye contact with him like that. “He's a great man, Mycroft.”

Mycroft laughed coldly. “Yes, perhaps. But not a good one, I shouldn’t think. Very well. Although I would appreciate not being bothered for... trivialities in the future.”

Lestrade laughed and nodded assent, but there was a gleam to his eye that boded ill for his promise. Mycroft ignored it in favour of a dignified exit, striding into Sherlock's room, not expecting a warm welcome from Sherlock, but honestly. Throwing his chart at Mycroft’s head was _hardly_ warranted. “Sherlock, you are a grown man! For God’s sake, act your age!” Mycroft roared. The portly man standing next to Sherlock’s bed with a panicked expression flinched as the chart clattered to the floor. Mycroft immediately dismissed him as unimportant.

Sherlock snarled: “I cannot _believe_ that I'm having the pleasure of your company twice in one day. He’ll send Anderson in here to serenade me next! I don’t need backup, _I work better alone!”_

Mycroft assumed the last statement was aimed at Lestrade and ignored it. “New addition to the agreement. You don't charge in alone.”

A snort from his brother was his, rude, reply. “You'd believe me if I said fine?”

“No. But humour me. It helps me sleep at night.”

“Perhaps you'd sleep better if you weren't stuffing yourself constantly while awake.”

_“Sherlock.”_

“…Fine. I agree. I’ll get a flatmate!” Sherlock sounded as though Mycroft had just told him to go and hug Father. “But it’s my choice who.” There was a pause. “Honestly, Mycroft, who’d have me for a flatmate? I don’t even like living with myself!”

“We’ve come to an agreement then?” Mycroft asked, glancing at his watch. “Time is short.” Sherlock glared and nodded, a tiny movement Mycroft that almost missed. He assumed that, being Sherlock, he was going to have to deal with a dose of the silent treatment simply for forcing his brother to see it his way. “Good afternoon then, brother. I expect you'll contact me when a suitable flat share is found.” He paused at the door and, without looking back, called out, “Oh and, Sherlock… be careful. If I have to bury you, I'll show my displeasure with the most pretentious headstone I can find.”


	5. When I first held you in my arms,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't meant to be like this.

_When I first held you in my arms, if only I'd have known, the years would feel like moments, after you had grown._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

His phone rang and it was normal. Everyday. Mundane. Answered with a crisp, “Holmes.”

Lifeless fingers slipped on the case. It tumbled to the floor. There were hitching sobs and a cry. Anthea gripped his arm, talking, talking, her mouth moving, but issuing empty words, meaningless, and he shook her off. Pulled himself up.

Suit, shoes. He slowly, so slowly, dressed.

He’d left his umbrella behind. For all his care, his shirt was untucked and tie askew.

 

* * *

 

When they were small, a bird had flown into the study window. Sherlock had begged to cut it apart, to open it up and see what made it tick. He’d always needed to _know_.

Mycroft looked at his brother now, at the silence that was so usual between them. But this time, the silence was wrong and Mycroft felt his skin itching, as though he was trying to climb out of it. His hand automatically tried to clench on an umbrella he'd forgotten. He thought of the bird and giggled. Sherlock. Sherlock, always needed to know what made people tick. _Well little brother, I can see what makes you tick. I can see that big brain of yours, and I know what makes you tick and what will never make you tick again._

Anthea started and stared at him. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud, realized how mad he must sound, didn't care. There was a clamminess to her skin. He hadn't seen her being ill but vomit laced the air. He wanted to yell, to tell her to get out and take her weakness elsewhere, but the vomit was almost masked by blood and death and sweat and pain and fear.

“Sir,” she whispered, her voice soft and careful, but he snarled, pushing past her. His eyes were open but empty and cold. Father's eyes. Father’s eyes in Sherlock’s face, and that wasn’t right. Sherlock wasn’t Father. He was life. He was life and brightness and light and he was a force that had exploded into Mycroft’s world and shaped his existence forever.

Mycroft lived for Sherlock, but not anymore, because Sherlock had stopped living.

Stupid Anthea kept talking but he screamed, told her to shut up, couldn’t she see the world was ending? She kept talking and was annoyed to realize that this time he hadn’t even spoken when he’d meant to. He’d meant to. In his head, he rallied against her, lashing out at her since he couldn’t yell at his brother. Not anymore, not ever again.

Sherlock was buried with a pretentious headstone, just as promised. Mycroft didn’t choose it however; Mummy did, and she wept the entire time.

Mycroft stood by her side. He felt nothing.


	6. I guess you’ll always be,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turnabout is fair play.

_You aren't a child, though in my eyes, I guess you'll always be, that baby boy who changed my life,_

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

John adamantly refused to look at Sherlock's face, knowing exactly the look of pleading longing his flatmate would be wearing. He busied himself with fumbling the keys to the flat: juggling the shopping, his keys, and his wallet unsuccessfully. “Bloody hell, can’t you give me a hand?”

Sherlock slumped against the railing. “Could. Won't.”

Fantastic. Just like his insufferable friend. Useless, lazy... wait. “What was that?”

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise, inexplicably glancing at the knocker. “Mycroft is here. Which means we shouldn’t be.”

Scowling, John finally managed to get the key in the lock and shoved open the door. “No. Damn you and your brother. I’ve got milk for the fridge, I’m not dealing with you being a toff today. Just talk to the man.”

Sherlock flopped dramatically onto the stoop. “Shan’t.” He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and withdrew into his coat, shrinking into himself. Well and truly on his way towards an epic sulk. Well, he could bloody well sit out here and freeze then. See if John cared!

“Child! Bloody, insufferable child!” yelled John, stomping up the stairs and showing his annoyance by making an unnecessary amount of noise. But John had been a soldier, and something prickled at his skin. He paused, right before pushing into their home. Listening intently at the door, feeling foolish but unable to ignore the feeling. The last time he’d felt like this… he’d gotten shot. Calloused fingertips brushed slightly against the door, and his eyes flickered to the handle, taking in the tarnished metal with a slight smear of... blood? He froze, still holding the shopping, and took a quiet step back to slink back down to alert Sherlock to the intruder in their flat. He couldn't hope that they hadn’t heard him crashing up the stairs, but if he could make it back to the hallway to shout…

His heart leapt into his throat as he heard a pained grunt from the flat. _Had someone startled the trespassers,_ he wondered? His hand touched the staircase banister and came away sticky. More blood. Another thump and a shout.

“John, it’s cold. Do attempt to hurry,” came a stifled voice from outside.

Sherlock, outside, because… Mycroft. John powered into action, dropping the bags with a _thunk_ and sprinting for the flat. His mad rush caught both Mycroft and the intruder, facing off with John’s armchair between them, by surprise. The intruder turned, masked and clothed in black, a wicked looking knife held in one hand. Mycroft gripped the chair tightly with one hand, his umbrella with the other, and he held the latter aloft before him like a weapon. John didn’t like the way Mycroft was standing, listing slightly to the side. The blood had to have come from somewhere.

John shouted first— “Sherlock!” —and lunged for the masked man.

“No!” cried Mycroft. “It’s a trap!” Before John could reach them, the assassin danced forward. He brought the knife down in a slash across Mycroft’s chest. John powered into them, seconds after the knife struck the elder Holmes, and all three fell to the ground. Moments later, John was fighting for his life. He rolled off Mycroft and tried frantically to keep the slashing knife away from his body. They wrestled desperately, John gripping the man’s arms and trying to pin him down with his body weight. An elbow belted into his windpipe. He choked. Stars burst into his vision as his throat burned. Gasping for air, he’d lost the upper hand, forced to roll away from the threat. He felt the knife skip across his arm, leaving a stuttering trail of shallow cuts. The assassin slammed into him. He raised the knife for the killing blow, and disappeared with a sickening crunch.

John felt rather than saw the man slump to the ground. Sherlock stood over them, lamp in hand. The shade crooked from striking the man. His face was deathly pale, eyes locked on a sight beyond John.

“Sherlock,” John inhaled, but his flatmate staggered and dropped the lamp, striding over him as though he wasn’t even there.

Something had gone wrong.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had heard John's cry and had vacating the step with a cheetah’s speed. He took the stairs in bounds and burst into the room, John’s name dying on his lips. His eyes locked for a moment with his brother’s. Mycroft stood by the armchair. John flew towards him. A knife slashed across Mycroft's chest, leaving spray of blood across the fabric. Mycroft crumpled and Sherlock lunged, moving with a wordless cry. Intruder disabled, he fell to his knees by his brother, still and silent, blood pooling around him in a growing pool. “John, help me!” His brother’s eyes were closed, his face bloodless. But he couldn't die, not like this. It was Sherlock who was supposed to be the one who was always in danger, Sherlock who danced with death.

“Move aside, Sherlock.” John was there, first aid kit with him, his hands calm and sure. “Call for help, an ambulance. Now!”

Sherlock stood and backed away slightly. His hands shook as he reached into his coat and pulled out his phone, his fingers leaving bloody smears on the keypad as he typed quickly.

**> > ** _Been attacked at flat. Mycroft wounded. Backup required. S.H._

The reply was almost instant. 

_What? I'm on my way. Who?_ **< <**

Sherlock glanced at the masked man, who stirred slightly, moaning. He felt a rush of bitter, hot fury. How dare this man lay a hand on his brother? 

**> > ** _Never mind him. He won't be a problem much longer. S.H._

* * *

 

“What did you do, Sherlock?” Mycroft glared at his brother, cranky from being cooped up in the hospital bed. He shifted, reaching for a glass of water, and hissed as it pulled at the stitches in his chest.

Sherlock handed him the glass and reclined in the chair next to the bed, smiling lazily. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I don't believe you.” Mycroft scowled. “And I don’t believe Greg either. He’s covering for you and I know it.”

Sherlock simply shrugged, fiddling with the blanket corner. “Mm.”

His brother froze. His eyes raked over the younger Holmes: the dark shadows under his eyes, his unwashed and messy hair, the sad state of his clothes. “Why, my dear brother,” Mycroft said, smiling smugly. “I do believe you've been worried about me.”

“Hardly. But it’s dull without my archenemy around.”

Mycroft laughed, the sound strange between them. They rarely laughed together. “Honestly, Brother, it wouldn't kill you to be nice, just once. I nearly died you know, and then where would you be?” He waited for the snarky reply.

Sherlock's eyes met his, and Mycroft flinched, shocked at the pain in them. He almost missed the whispered, “I know.”


	7. You mean the world to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft teaches Sherlock one last lesson.

_…and means the world to me._

**Cynthia A. Sieving, _‘Though you are grown’_**

 

It began like this:

A child was born, named by his brother, and loved without pause for all his years. The brothers grew apart and grew together. They grew older. They grew wiser. They loved, although neither of them knew how to express that emotion. The oldest was clever, so clever. So clever that he dazzled the youngest and left him reeling in the wake of his success. The youngest was alive. Alive with passion and love. He loved everything with all of himself. His city, his job, his mind. His friends. He was reckless and brash and brilliant. And they always knew that it would end with the oldest standing over the grave of the youngest and saying goodbye. That was the agreement. Because the oldest had spent his lifetime buying his brother time, and the youngest had never even considered it the other way around.

It ended like this:

John bent over Mycroft with his deft hands working to keep his heart beating even as the great muscle failed. Sherlock watched numbly and didn’t say a word because it wasn’t just Mycroft’s heart that couldn’t continue past this day. It ended with the wail of sirens and a touch on his arm. It ended with his brother being borne away on a clattering stretcher. He wouldn’t live to see the hospital.

It ended.

 

* * *

 

The day they buried Mycroft Holmes was bright and bitterly sunny, as though the weather itself sought to mock Sherlock with the emptiness of the world around him.

John spoke. He spoke of a brother’s love, and of dedication, loyalty and honour. He spoke.

Sherlock said nothing because there was nothing he needed to say to the hordes of people gathered there to mourn Mycroft Holmes. There was nothing they needed to hear from him. The only man he wanted to speak to was lying cold in a wooden box. It occurred to Sherlock with a cold sort of regret that now when the tabloids called him the most observant man in the world, it would be true.

 

* * *

 

He waited until night had claimed the graveyard before jumping the fence and making his way over to the freshly turned earth covering his brother. The air was bitterly cold and it bit at his throat and ached in his bones. Mycroft would have been appalled to see him jumping fences and skulking about at his age. “Behaviour unbecoming for a Holmes,” grumbled the ghost of a memory.

It was wonderfully melodramatic. Sherlock laughed.

“The headstone will be pretentious,” he told the plot of land firmly. “Grotesquely pretentious, no doubt, but then, you would have liked that. I shall have to endeavour to get my revenge some other way. Perhaps I shall plant some sort of nasty, pervasive weed on you.”

The wind answered, and he drew the scarf tighter around his neck. He wasn’t done yet.

“You were,” he said, and stopped. The words tore from his mouth and carried away on the breeze, taken to God knows where. “You were… my brother. And you were, quite frankly, the worst brother anyone could’ve asked for. Plotting, conniving, meddlesome and above all, dull. I honestly don’t know how I put up with you.” He spared a glance for Mummy’s grave, still immaculate despite the years of weather beating down upon it. “And yet, always your favourite, no matter his many faults.” The wind picked up. Sherlock shivered. He felt sick. And lost.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

“I love you,” he whispered to the earth. “I love you so much, and you still left me. Did you even know how much I love you?” He was the one man who Sherlock had expected to stand by his side forever, and yet, when he needed him most, he wasn’t there. It didn’t matter how old he was, or how old he grew, he would never stop needing his brother. Or loving him.

But death didn’t care how much someone was loved or needed.

And no matter how much he ached for the click of an umbrella up the hall or a sighed chuckle, he would hear neither again.

“He knew,” said a soft voice behind him, and Sherlock wasn’t at all surprised when John ghosted out of the mist. He still wore awful jumpers, still had the same haircut and wise blue eyes. He walked with a limp that this time Sherlock couldn’t fix it. There were a lot of things Sherlock was finding he couldn’t fix anymore. How his younger self would have scoffed at him. What a disappointment he had turned out to be.

“He always knew. He was the smartest bloody man we’ll ever know, Sherlock. Of course he knew.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned back into the warmth of John’s shoulder. They stood together and waited until the wind began to bite once more and then they turned as one to leave.

 

* * *

 

The headstone was pretentious, as promised. Eventually it was obscured by a clinging ivy that mysteriously appeared one day and resisted all attempts to remove it. Eventually only the inscription on the bottom of the stone could be read.

_“In perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.”_

_(Forever and ever, brother, hail and farewell.)_

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited in August, 2017.**


End file.
